


Of Heroes and Fools

by Ferasha



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study, Deconstruction, Drama, Introspection, M/M, Psychology, Twists Within Twists, Unrequited Love, Who needs fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6185764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferasha/pseuds/Ferasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night before the Battle for Denerim, Zevran spends his last moments with his Warden. Things, however, are not as they seem, but Zevran knows it all too well. Secrets, lies, manipulation, unhealthy relationships and unrequited feelings have always fascinated him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Heroes and Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in 2010. Beta'd by Bellaknoti, who helped a lot given that English is not my native language.
> 
> Based on an actual playthrough.

**Of Heroes and Fools**

 

“How long have you known?” the Warden asked, tracing his finger down Zevran’s back. There was an unusual tenderness in his touch, it felt almost unnatural. The Warden surely thought that this was the appropriate way to treat the elf on this special eve – after all, it was their last night together, and he did his best to be gentle in their lovemaking, to show something akin to affection.  
  
Zevran wasn’t sure that he liked it.  
  
Usually, the Warden was anything but gentle. At first, it was obvious that his inexperience was a problem when it came to the art of pleasuring one’s bedmate, and Zevran was more than willing to teach him a few tricks. But the man wasn’t really eager to learn, no. He just kept going at it, selfish, greedy and uncaring, thrusting like there’s no tomorrow, until Zevran felt dizzy and weak, and he bled, and his body hurt as if all his internal organs had been rearranged. The muscled oaf apparently had no clue how difficult it was to sneak around and backstab when your back was in such pain that you barely walked straight. Yet every time the Warden asked him to his tent – and he came to him every single night, regardless of where they were or how hard a battle awaited them the next day – Zevran would not refuse. The elf sometimes wondered why he acted like that around the Warden, but that would usually lead to some rather discomfiting conclusions, so he decided to stop pondering the matter.  
  
However, tonight Zevran wanted the taste of blood. He longed to have some markings on his skin that would last even after the battle with the Archdemon was over, as a proof that all that happened between them was real. Yet no, tonight of all nights, the Warden decided to play lovers. Cruel to the end.  
  
The worst was that the man looked really happy with himself. Watching that smug expression on his face, Zevran suddenly wished to slip some poison into the man’s drink and laugh at him while he died in slow agony. But they both knew it would not happen – the Warden made the elf play along with his plan, and Zevran hated to admit that he was keen to see what would happen next. After all, it was difficult not to admire the man who managed to turn the whole Blight into the stage for his own little charade.  
  
“Will you not answer my question?” the Warden insisted.  
  
Zevran sighed and turned on his back, trying to rest his head on the Warden’s shoulder. Another quirk in this bizarre relationship of theirs – in spite of being one of the most aggressive and unpleasant partners that Zevran had ever been with, the man actually liked to _cuddle_ after intercourse. And Zevran complied. Go figure.  
  
“There were… hints, since the very beginning,” the elf carefully chose his words.  
  
“Hints, you say?” The Warden chuckled. “Was I that obvious?”  
  
Yes, Zevran wanted to say, but instead he just smiled. One liar can easily recognize another, and since the moment the elf had laid his eyes on the heroic Grey Warden, all mighty and virtuous like the last ray of hope in these dark times, he knew that the man was a fake. Being no fool and having learnt to closely observe people around him, preying on every little detail that might reveal some dark secret that could be exploited, it didn’t take him much time to figure out _why_ the Warden was putting on a show. And a masterful show it was – everyone fell for the trick, even the Witch, so proud on her cleverness and distrust, was genuinely annoyed by what she thought to be a straightforward do-gooder. It was Zevran alone who knew what kind of a rotten heart the Warden was hiding behind that shining armor of his. The worst part was that it had made him feel _special_.  
  
Only that he wasn’t. He never was. But that was not something Zevran wanted to think about, not on their last night together.  
  
There weren’t hints, there were signs in plain sight, so painfully evident that they could be missed only if one deliberately chose to disregard them.  
  
Immediately after that failed assassination attempt, Zevran decided to gamble and offer his services to the Warden, and the man accepted him without a second thought. His eyes were cold, his smile was hard, and it was more than clear that he was ready to cut off Zevran’s head if the elf were to make a single misstep, but his posture was solemn and his speech was full of important messages, something along the lines that everybody willing to repent deserved a second chance. The Bard Girl was impressed – after all, Goodwill and Mercy were among the crucial virtues a hero had to possess, and the Old Mage did not say a thing (there were times when Zevran wondered whether she saw it too, but after a while it became obvious that she was as naïve as everyone else, happily swallowing the delusions she was being served). But then _he_ – the Templar – complained, said something about taking assassins, with the voice of a spoilt child that had been ignored for too long. In a second, the confidence in the Warden’s eyes was replaced by panic, and for a moment Zevran thought that his life was over, that the man would gut him then and there, just to demonstrate that he wasn’t into assassins or, as a matter of fact, into anything that _he_ wouldn’t approve. Thankfully, the Bard Girl stepped in, and it gave the Warden enough time to get a hold of himself and think of a reasonable argument to appease the Templar – in this time of Blight, the party needed every competent individual, and there were many situations in which an assassin’s skill could come up useful. So the Templar had to comply, still pouting like a child.  
  
Later that night, in the camp, Zevran found himself sitting in a corner without anyone paying him any attention. Strange, that very afternoon he had tried to take down their leader, but as soon as the Warden had said that Zevran was part of the team, the other members accepted it as a word of the Maker and never questioned the elf’s presence. He noticed the Warden treating the Templar like a lover after a quarrel – he showered him with gifts (toy soldiers and little statuettes of dragons, something only a boy – or a deeply immature individual – could like), poured him ale, cracked jokes, smiled at him, comforted him, talked about the Grey Wardens and life in the Chantry and a dead man named Duncan (the Templar actually did all the talking, the Warden only listened, his face glowing with the same expression of blind adoration that the Dog had when it was gazing at its master). And after a while, the Templar stopped brooding and resumed his boyish smile, and then the Warden looked so cheerful that the scene became humiliating to watch.  
  
It was mind-boggling how no one else seemed to notice.  
  
After that, tagging along on their Mission, watching the Warden doing his best to bring a happy ending to every place they set their foot in, Zevran started to analyze the man’s every word and gesture, finding it difficult to believe that the only motivation behind the Warden’s actions was whether the Templar would be pleased or not. But it was true. The Warden traveled the world reciting lines that sounded like quotations from those cheap adventure novels that the Old Mage used to read in secret, in which knights fought dragons and rescued damsels from burning towers – I’ll _protect,_ you, I’ll _save_ you, I’ll _defend_ you, I’ll _help_ – and all with the sole purpose to keep the Templar lulled into belief that true heroes still existed in this world. It was rather clear that the Warden couldn’t care less about every lost child or missing daughter or grieving mother or village under siege, but there he was, solving problems and collecting approval points, his smile sincere only when the Templar was smiling with him. During their time in Redcliffe, it was obvious that the Warden, tired after fighting their way through hordes of walking corpses and animated decorative armor, truly wanted to deal with the child the quickest way possible and let that Orlesian bitch get what she deserved. But at the hint of a frown on the Templar’s brow, they were already on their way to the Circle of Magi, ready to negotiate for a happily-ever-after that the Templar had always wished for. Come to think of it, it was hilarious.  
  
It was during their trip to Lake Calenhad that Zevran, who at the time thought the Warden to be nothing more than a pathetic lovesick fool, decided to start flirting with the man. Zevran firmly believed that flirting was an excellent way to test someone’s character - a person’s reaction to winks and compliments could reveal a lot about their nature. The last thing he expected, however, was that the man would swallow his invitations hook, line and sinker, and respond with advances so aggressive that the elf was amazed. Zevran realized that it was the Warden’s hunger and frustration speaking, making him desperate enough to throw himself upon the first willing male, but it was shocking to see the man whose hands shook and cheeks blushed whenever _he_ was around, now acting so _vulgar_ , for lack of a better word. It took them less than a day to end up in the Warden’s tent.  
  
The morning after was oh so charming. Even though Zevran’s cries were more those of pain than of pleasure, they were loud enough to keep the entire camp awake all night, and during breakfast, the Templar, for no obvious reason (at least from the perspective of those who weren’t so sharp-eyed), threw a tantrum that could be explained only by some childish jealousy that the poor man probably wasn’t even aware of. Yet this time the Warden did not soothe him or come up with excuses – with a firm voice, he said he had the right to engage in a relationship with whomever he chose, and he did not have any intentions to stop pursuing the elf (Zevran was as shocked as the Templar when he heard those words). The Templar looked hurt but the Warden seemed in higher spirits than ever, and ‘til the end of the day he continued to parade with Zevran in front of everybody, kissing in public, making the Bard Girl giggle, the Old Mage shrink in embarrassment, and the Witch roll her eyes. Under normal circumstances, Zevran would think that this was nothing but a petty jealousy stunt – he had seen and participated in too many of those. Yet he had to admit that there was something strange in the Warden’s eyes when he was staring at the Templar, something hard and malicious, as if he was gloating, as if he was genuinely happy that he had caused the other man some pain. In that moment, it occurred to Zevran that this whole ridiculous affair had a darker side.  
  
At first, Zevran couldn’t decide what exactly the Warden was doing to the Templar, let alone why. But curiosity got the better of him and he just couldn’t stop prying – watching, eavesdropping, hunting for little clues as if his life depended on it. Strange, he started feeling like an audience member of a grandiose theater play, one of those written in verses and performed by actors with thick makeup and dusty wigs who spoke stressing every syllable of overcomplicated words, one of those that inevitably ended in bloodshed and tragedy (or he kept telling himself that he was still in the audience, fully aware he was slowly becoming a supporting character). Applying his espionage skills to his own party members eventually led to results, and after they’d been humiliatingly chased out of the home of the Templar’s half-sister in Denerim, who’d thrown a wash-basin at them and called them names in a fit of justified working-class anger, Zevran got his proof.  
  
If there ever was a moment for the Warden to wake up the Templar from his little world of fairy-tale princes and heroic ballads, that was the one. The Warden should have explained to him how cruel the world was, how everybody was out for themselves and how dreams did not always come true, and perhaps that would have turned the Templar into a stronger – if not better – person. But no. The Warden whispered a most unreasonable “everything-will-be-all-right-I-promise-I’ll-fix-it” mantra, talking to the other man as if he were talking to his Dog (gentle words, but cold and controlling eyes), and then the Templar burst into tears on the Warden’s shoulder, and the Warden looked happy, and Zevran finally understood it all.  
  
He was purposely shaping the poor sod into an idiot. He was _systematically_ and _deliberately_ turning the Templar into a needy, whiny, dependent waste of a human being, spineless and weak-willed, completely unable to make a single decision on his own, looking up to the Warden as if the man were the Maker himself, almighty and righteous and more than willing to take care of all the problems in the world. He created a monster – a pathetic joke of one, but a monster nonetheless – and then he broke its heart (first with little cracks, that was Zevran’s role, then further on with low blows such as putting him on the throne, and finally shattering his world by marrying him off to that power-hungry thick-skinned harpy).  
  
And now the Warden planned to die.  
  
Zevran wasn’t sure whether he should applaud, or run away as far as his legs would take him.  
  
“There is one thing that escapes me still, my dear Warden.” Zevran sighed, running his fingers through the man’s hair. His locks were still moist from sweat after lovemaking. “Why?”  
  
“What do you mean, why?” The Warden chuckled, in an irritatingly good mood for a man who was about to die on the morrow. He planted a kiss on Zevran’s forehead, a small and unnecessary tenderness that only added to the elf’s frustration. (Not that he was really frustrated, of course. Only _annoyed_ because the turn of events was beyond his control and he had allowed himself to get caught in the current. And also perhaps because he enjoyed the whole ordeal in a most perverse way, which was either disturbingly masochistic or grandiosely sadistic, or both).  
  
“I thought you loved him. It certainly looked like that in the beginning,” Zevran said. “Why do you wish to crush him so hard?”  
  
“Oh, but I love him still, sweetheart. He is the apple of my eye, the center of my world, my sole reason for living – and dying. It is out of love that I do this.”  
  
Zevran knew that love was supposed to be a scary thing, but the Warden’s words gave him the chills like nothing ever before.  
  
“You’re insane,” the elf shook his head.  
  
“That I am,” the Warden happily agreed.  
  
The man kissed Zevran’s neck, then bit it gently and pulled the elf closer to him, calloused hands on slender hips, caresses still awkward even after many months of practice. It seemed that the Warden was ready for a second round, but Zevran was not in the mood.  
  
“I do not understand,” he said.  
  
“What is there not to understand, sweetheart? Love? True enough, it’s never been _your_ stronger side.”  
  
Even if Zevran himself usually boasted that love and all related sap were beneath him – so much that he turned it into a personal anthem, “raised-among-the-whores-bred-as-an-assassin-knows-only-for-fleeting-pleasures” – the words felt like a slap in the face. The elf frowned.  
  
“Do explain then, my Warden.”  
  
The man took his hands off the elf and leaned against the pillows, making himself more comfortable – it seemed that the tale he was about to tell would be a long one. For a moment, Zevran regretted asking, but then the Warden’s expression changed, that crooked smirk disappeared, the look in his eyes softened, and the man seemed almost vulnerable, almost human. Perhaps even pitiful in a way, but Zevran wasn’t keen on pitying anyone, let alone the hero who united Ferelden, gathered the strangest army known to mankind’s recent history, and was about to charge the Archdemon headfirst.  
  
The Warden sighed.  
  
“See, sweetheart, this was not the fate that I chose for myself, but worry not, I shall not bore you with my childhood dreams or how my mother used to nag me for not spending enough time with ladies of marriageable age, instead wasting my days in the training grounds with Ser Gilmore, a knight who used to serve on our estate. Suffice to say that in a matter of a few days, I lost my family and friends; I was pushed into becoming part of an ancient order that brought me nothing but nightmares, secrets and no more than thirty years of life straight out of horror tales; I was betrayed twice – once by my father’s best friend, second time by my nation’s best general; I barely survived a slaughter by monsters I hadn’t even believed in; I got involved with the witch of legends that my mother had scared me with when I was a boy; and I was given a monumental task that seemed way too ambitious to be plausible, although the future of my country depended on it. The only thing I had left was my Dog,” the Warden paused. “But then _he_ came along.”  
  
The man smiled dreamily, as if he believed that all the misfortunes he had just listed were worth it for the encounter. Zevran felt a heavy knot forming deep inside his stomach, clawing at him, giving him the urge to jump out of the bed and leave, slamming the door. But he remained still, and even smiled encouragingly.  
  
“So what happened then, my Warden?”  
  
“Enchantment, that’s what happened!” the man laughed, his laughter sounding genuine for the first time in a long while. “It was amazing, sweetheart. It felt like a fairy tale. It was as if the Maker himself had made our circumstances special – we were the last of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, sharing our nightmares, our fate and our colossal quest, it was us against the world. True, Morrigan was there as well, but she didn’t interfere much, letting us boys bond like the comrades-in-arms that we were. He was devastated by what had happened at Ostagar in a most awkward manner – a grown man, probably a better warrior than me at the time, and yet so vulnerable, so pure-hearted and confused. The way he’d been looking at me for support quickly became addictive. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to save the world for him. I wanted him to want me,” the Warden stopped for a moment, clearly savoring the memory of those times. “And there was hope – bashful smiles here and there, side glances when he thought I wasn’t looking, strange conversations that could have been interpreted as clumsy attempts at flirting. But that didn’t last long.”  
  
“Nothing good lasts forever,” Zevran said with theatrical bitterness.  
  
“Don’t mock me, sweetheart. Don’t you ever mock me that way. Even though you are right,” the Warden’s smile disappeared. “Soon the others joined our cause, and we didn’t get to spend so much time alone, and our quests often left us too used up to sit by the camp fire and talk about unimportant things. And then his little secret came out – of royal blood, who would have thought – so he started avoiding me, probably thinking that I held a grudge against him for lying to me, or something equally silly. Fool. After a while, he became so difficult and judgmental that keeping him happy got progressively more exhausting. That is when we started drifting apart. But surely you have already noticed this.”  
  
“Maybe,” the elf said.  
  
“Then one night, somewhat out of the blue, he confronted me, _accused_ me of fancying Morrigan – Morrigan, of all people – and for a moment, I hoped that it was out of jealousy. Perhaps jealousy it was, but not the kind I was praying for. He was blissfully oblivious of how I felt for him. From the way he was looking at me, it was obvious that the thought had never even crossed his mind – in spite of our closeness, of our camaraderie, the possibility of him and me in an intimate relationship was beyond the boundaries of his Chantry-shaped, Templar-brainwashed mind. In that moment, I realized that I would never have him the way I wanted.”  
  
“You could have tried.”  
  
“I guess I was too shy.”  
  
“You weren’t shy with _me_.”  
  
The words sounded a tad too emotional for what Zevran had intended.  
  
“But you’re different, sweetheart,” the Warden whispered, wrapping his arms around the elf. Zevran tried to smile, but his charms failed him – his lips produced only an ugly grimace.  
  
“So, that is when you decided to ruin his life?” he asked, as cheerfully as he could.  
  
“Now, sweetheart, don’t judge me that harshly.” The Warden smiled, and for a second time that night the elf felt that impulse to feed him some poison, something that would cause a painful and undignified death. “I have only discovered a way to make him mine, and mine alone. Forever. Ruining his life was nothing but a necessary step in the process.”  
  
Zevran remembered the scene when it happened, when the Templar finally understood that life as he knew it was over and he was trapped, for all eternity, into a waking nightmare made of silk chains and poisonous smiles. The Usurper’s body was still on the floor, blood drying on marble tiles. The Harpy, the widow and the bride-to-be, stood next to it, uncertain whether she was expected to mourn her executed father or allowed to gloat that she got to keep her throne (Zevran often thought that the Harpy and the Warden would have been a perfect match, a King and his Queen worthy of legends from the olden days – only he wasn’t interested and she wasn’t offering, and perhaps it was for the better). The Banns were shouting – _long live the King!_ – narrowing their eyes, trying to assess whether the bastard prince was really as dimwitted and easily influenced as rumor had it, and the Templar’s stuttering, fumbling and expression of sheer horror did not convince them otherwise. As always, the Warden’s face was a perfect mask, a graceful smile befitting the country’s greatest hero who has just defeated the Usurper and crowned the rightful king.  
  
Later they were taken to a smaller room and told to wait while the Templar – or rather, His Majesty – shook hands and accepted congratulations. The silence between the party members was palpable – even though they had just witnessed a historical turning point and completed a large part of their quest, they were all staring at their feet, (except for the Warden, and perhaps the Dwarf who was downing his ale somewhat faster than usual), nobody making any comments, as if they all felt guilty in a way. Or ashamed, Zevran couldn’t tell. And then finally, hours later, the Templar stormed in, slamming the door so hard that plaster fell from the ceiling. He had always been a man proficient at throwing tantrums, but judging by the heated look in his eyes and fists squeezed ‘til his knuckles turned white, he was about to outdo himself.  
  
And Maker, what a tantrum it was. In a matter of seconds, the Bard Girl was on the verge of tears, the Dwarf all sobered up, the Giant murmuring some prayers in his language, the Old Mage deeply embarrassed, the Witch disgusted – every single member of the team preferring to be anywhere else but in that room. Well, except for Zevran. Almost as intensely as the Warden, he wallowed in the Templar's flood of words – words so unbecoming of a king, so dramatic, so angry and yet so hungry for the Warden’s approval. It made Zevran cringe. How could you do that to me – the Templar shouted through tears, shaking with rage – why did you hurt me so bad, you were the only one I trusted, my best friend, the most important person in my life, and yet you betrayed me, you did what I feared the most, what I resented the most, what I begged you not to do, you know I never wanted to be king, you know I will never make a good king, you know she hates me and you made her my wife, now I will only be a burden, to her, to the Banns, to Ferelden, why did you do it, don’t leave me now, all alone, I cannot handle this alone, I need you, please stay, please promise you won’t leave me, please, _promise_! He was on his knees by the end of the tirade, trembling like a child, all snot-nosed (what a sad, sad monster), and the Warden sat down on the floor next to him, hugged him and petted his hair, and _promised_ he would never leave, he would stay by His Majesty’s side forever, to make decisions and solve problems, just like life was supposed to be.  
  
It was marvelous how the Warden orchestrated this entire farce just to be able to make and break that promise.  
  
“When did you decide to kill yourself?” Zevran finally asked. “I mean, to die on him,” he corrected himself, and paused somewhat confused by his own choice of words. But that’s what it was – a painstakingly elaborated suicide. Zevran kind of remembered the feeling, but this was different. So very different.  
  
The Warden didn’t seem particularly surprised by the question or offended by the wording.  
  
“When I realized he’d never love me the way I wanted, I guess. Or, perhaps, when it came to me that I can take him down with me if I do that. That he’d be mine,” the Warden said in a soft voice, and all of a sudden he looked tired and old, too old for a man still in his early youth. “What should I live for? I lost all that I cared about and he doesn’t love me. There is nothing in my future that I can even remotely look forward to - playing the hero was never among my favorite pastimes, I did it only for him and you know it. I have no interest whatsoever to spend the rest of my life celebrated as The Man Who Stopped the Blight, and even if I do stay by his side, I will only watch him slip away from me more and more each day, carried by court intrigues and kingly duties and that calculating bastard Eamon. Because that’s life.”  
  
The man’s arms were still around Zevran, pulling the elf closer, continuing with those disturbingly gentle touches accompanied by light kisses on neck and shoulders. The Warden buried his face in the elf’s hair; Zevran felt the man’s breath tickling the back of his neck and did not feel the impulse to push him away. It was most frightening.  
  
“Like this, sweetheart, my death can serve my purpose,” the man continued, his voice barely a whisper. “I never intended to survive the battle with the Archdemon. The fact that it turned out that one Grey Warden must die – that there has to be a _willing_ sacrifice – played into my hands so perfectly that I barely believe it. It’s like a proof that even the Maker is on my side.”  
  
Suddenly, the Warden unceremoniously let go of Zevran as if he were nothing but a pillow and jumped out of the bed. Zevran frowned, and then felt upset by this need to frown because, of course, in this relationship of theirs there were no feelings to be hurt. The Warden approached the window. He was such a big man, Zevran thought, looking at his silhouette against the moonlit window, so handsome and powerful, the ideals of knighthood incarnated indeed, and it was such an irony that his personality was anything but. And Zevran loved irony, even though the man himself annoyed him to no end.  
  
“I will tell you what will happen tomorrow, sweetheart,” the Warden started, a strange glow in his eyes. “We shall face the hordes of the underworld and we shall win. I’m not an optimist by nature, I am only stating the obvious, because I know how much I invested in our not-so-little multiracial army, how I equipped them and how I shall lead them. Not more than a year ago, when we left Flemeth’s cabin, it may have seemed impossible, but tonight I know for sure that we shall win that battle. And Riordan shall fail – he’s too old, his skills are rusty, and he spent too much time in Howe’s dungeon to be able to take down a maddened Old God. This means that the two of us, he and I, will have to confront the Archdemon. It will be a perfect circle: it started with the two of us, and that is how it shall end. We’ll subdue the beast, of this I am sure, and then he will beg me to let him deal the final blow. He’ll say that it was always me saving his skin and he’ll offer to do this one thing for me, and even though he’ll probably believe it – he’s funny that way – that will merely be a convenient excuse for what he sees as the only way out of his unfortunate situation. Of course, I shall not let him. I shall say that the king must live for his country and his people, and I shall ignore that hurt and disbelieving look in his eyes as I take my sword and charge into the former god. And I shall die.”  
  
The Warden was grinning, hypnotized by his own words, the glow in his eyes reflecting some kind of insanity indeed, and Zevran remembered that just a moment ago the man didn’t even try to deny it.  
  
“I’ll be celebrated as the greatest hero Ferelden has ever had,” the man spoke louder, as if reciting a sermon. “I will have a splendid funeral, and everybody will cry for me – even you, sweetheart, will be so polite as to fake a few tears – and he will personally, as the king of Ferelden, deliver a speech over my grave. Children will be named after me, monuments in my memory will be built, sagas will be written. I will be ever-present, untarnished, the perfect hero, untouchable and irreproachable in death. And he will become a fool of a king – puppeteered by his wife and counselors, despised by the nobility, mocked by the commonfolk and abandoned by his former companions, as they will all have smarter things to do than to stay by his side, I have seen to that. He will never love Anora, yet he will be too inept to cheat on her, he will hate his life, yet he will have no backbone to change it, and he will whine, because that’s the only thing he knows how to do. But no one will listen to such a fool, king or not, for I was the only one who cared to obey his whims and fulfill his wishes, and I will be dead. And he will remember me.”  
  
The Warden turned his face to Zevran again, his back to the window. A dark figure against moonlight with only those mad eyes glowing, he reminded the elf of a long forgotten picture from childhood – an illustration of a demon from those brochures that the Reverend Mother used to bring to the brothel in which he grew up, probably hoping to save some souls, even though the whores were far more interested in mischievous depictions of demonic powers than in salvation.  
  
“He will remember me,” the man continued, his voice on the verge of laughter. “He will feel my absence as strongly as physical pain. Every day, every hour, every second of his miserable life he will think about me. Surrounded by my statues and portraits, there will be no place to get away from me – not that he would want it, for remembering how much I have meant to him will be his only comfort left. True, there will be times when he will hate me for condemning him to this life, and he will curse me and quarrel with me in his head – knowing him, he may even resort to drinking – but at the end of the day, he will always have to forgive me, as I have died a most noble death for the highest possible cause, and he will know that a true hero would have never chosen differently. And as he grows old and his Calling draws nearer, as he completely transforms into this lonely and bitter puppet with a crown, my ghost will be the only thing that will keep him company.”  
  
The Warden finally lost it and broke into laugh.  
  
“I told you, sweetheart. Mine forever.”  
  
Such a fine performance deserved applause indeed, the fact that the Warden actually believed those lines made them sound even more powerful. Theater etiquette demanded a pause after the main character has delivered his most important monologue, so Zevran stayed silent, letting the words sink in, waiting for the man to stop laughing. It did not take long – soon the Warden sighed as if he had nothing left to say, his face resuming that tired expression which seemed to appear, if only for a second, whenever his mask started cracking. The man now looked so pale and depleted as he stood by the window and stared somewhere beyond the walls of Castle Redcliffe, where the darkspawn horde crawled and howled on its way to Denerim. As far as Zevran knew, the Warden could sense them – it must have been a mind-tearing sensation, to feel them resonating in your blood, to have the taint gnawing and itching under your skin. Perhaps that was what drove him mad.  
  
But another mystery was troubling the elf, and he had waited the entire evening for the right opportunity to ask the question. He reached out his hand, inviting the man back to bed.  
  
“And what will happen with me, my Warden?”  
  
The man looked genuinely confused for a second – it was obvious that he hadn’t given the matter much thought. It took him a while to come up with a reply, and his voice sounded strangely honest when he started talking.  
  
“I set you free from the Crows when I killed that – what was his name – your former partner, or lover, or whatever he was to you.”  
  
A friend, Zevran wanted to say, but he stopped short.  
  
“After all this is done, I believe that you will have more than enough money to start a new life. I will even make sure that you inherit all my personal belongings, as a little extra. This means that you can do whatever you want. Stay here. Travel. Become a freelance assassin. Join a circus. Persuade Sten to take you to Seheron. Go to that pirate friend of yours and sail the seven seas. The world will be yours, sweetheart, and you’re a survivor. I’m sure you will find your place under the sun.”  
  
Zevran knew he was supposed to feel grateful. There was nothing more that he could wish for. The man had given him his freedom without asking for something in return – not any more at least, and to be honest, the Warden hadn’t _asked_ anything from Zevran to begin with, it was the elf who had offered it first, only to find himself at a loss when his proposal was taken seriously.  
  
Still, this freedom did not feel right. It was not a victory won especially for him. It came collaterally, as if freeing the party’s assassin from the clutches of his former masters was nothing more than one of those side quests that the Warden had done along the way. Zevran wasn’t sure what to do with such freedom. He failed to smile for a second time that evening, and apparently this time his expression was sour enough to make the Warden frown (thank the Maker there were no mirrors around).  
  
“Now, sweetheart, what’s with that face?” the man asked as he climbed back to bed, pulling the elf towards him, leaning in for a kiss. “Cheer up. It will all be over tomorrow. You’ll be free. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Don’t tell me you’ll miss me…”  
  
“Of course I won’t,” the elf said somewhat too quickly, even if he was telling the truth.  
  
“See?” the Warden chuckled, his lips on Zevran’s neck, his hands opening the elf’s thighs. “We’ve had a good relationship, you and I. Neither of us asking for more than the other was willing to give. Remember me well, sweetheart – if you ever do.”  
  
Zevran felt teeth on his collarbone, rough hands grabbing his hips, and a moment later that familiar, burning pain from penetration – ah, finally, the man decided to drop the lovers act and go back to his usual aggressive self. It hurt, like it always did with the Warden, yet pain came as a relief, and Zevran felt grateful that this was their very last time, especially since a part of him had started enjoying this forceful copulation (Zevran had often wondered whether the Warden imagined that it was the Templar under his body, whether this brutality was an attempt to punish the other man for his indifference. It must have been enthralling to be the object of such desire, and merely thinking about it excited the elf as if he were with a most skillful lover, which was terrifying beyond words).  
  
It _was_ their last time, wasn’t it? If the Warden were to be believed – and frustratingly, the man was _always_ right – soon enough, the Blight would be over, the Archdemon would lay slain, the hero would perish valiantly, the fool would live on, doomed, and the assassin would walk away, free as a bird. It would be difficult to imagine a more fitting ending – everyone got what they wanted (or deserved, as the case would be for the Templar, although Zevran pitied the unfortunate monster more often than he‘d like to admit), even the Bard Girl gained an endless source of inspiration for numerous future poems, novels and other retellings of their exploits that promised her a blossoming career.  
  
And yet, even though the entire machination fascinated him, Zevran disliked such an ending to their play.  
  
He felt the knot in his stomach grow heavier, his head dizzy, cold sweat slick on his skin as the Warden fondled him. He wondered whether he was nothing but another fool when he understood what kind of a particularly frightening and, in given circumstances, self-destructive urge began to form in his mind – the urge to _rebel_.  
  
Perhaps he was going insane too.  
  
It was not the first time that he felt this urge – Marker knows that there were moments in his life when he was ready to commit utter stupidities just to _get away_ – but never before it hadn’t been so precise and difficult to resist. It was the Warden’s fault, however – the man left such an opening in his plan that it would be foolish not to exploit it. Apparently, the human noble was not as versed in theater as he pretended to be – otherwise, he would have known that every time the villain exposed all the details of his master plan to someone (especially if that someone was the captured hero), it would only turn out to be the cause of the villain’s downfall. (But wait, wasn’t the Warden _the hero_ in this tale, and Zevran far from being the protagonist? This story grew to be way too confusing…)  
  
It was a beginner’s mistake. It was even offensive, Zevran thought as the Warden’s thrusts became stronger and quicker, to think that the elf meant so little, that the Warden believed him to be insignificant enough to safely confide in him his entire ploy. Or, perhaps, it was meant to be a compliment, as maybe the man thought that the elf was malicious enough to appreciate such a carefully tailored conspiracy, like one enjoyed fine wines or works of art.  
  
Whatever the reason was, the mistake was made. Now it was entirely up to Zevran to decide how to proceed. He finally managed to smile, wrapping his legs around the Warden’s waist as if encouraging the man – he liked this sudden feeling of being in control, for once.  
  
It could easily become addictive.  
  
He could allow the Warden to carry on with his plan – let him die heroically and get his pretty posthumous speeches and exotic flower arrangements, hell, he could even cry at his funeral. And when all was over, he could go to the Templar and tell him the truth – listen, Your Majesty, you’ve been duped, the one you thought to be your best friend was actually a creepy control freak who decided to destroy your life because of an unrequited crush, sorry to tell you this, but he manipulated you and everyone around you, and he really doesn’t deserve that oversized statue you’re planning to build. If only that would work – Zevran and the Templar had never been on truly friendly terms, and the new king of Ferelden idolized his comrade way too much to believe the accusations of an assassin who was known to be a dishonorable, two-faced pervert. If he were to foil the Warden’s scheme, Zevran needed a more convincing approach.  
  
He could let the plan unfold just like the Warden had wanted, but then he could add a twist to it – a twist that no one but Zevran was capable of pulling off. After the Warden’s death, the Templar would indeed become a broken man, but what if a certain elf remained by his side to heal his wounds and offer him comfort? True, the Templar had never even tried to hide his dislike for the elf, but things would be different after the Blight – if he acted heart-broken enough, Zevran would easily be given the title of The Deceased Hero’s Official Widow, and that would be a powerful starting position for his own little game. It shouldn’t be too difficult, after all, the Templar would desperately need someone to lean on, and both of them had lost their Special Someone (when you deeply cared for a person, it shouldn’t matter whether you were lovers of friends, or so the rumors claimed) – they had shared their adventures and now they would share their pain. In time, Zevran would start cherishing him the same way the Warden did, but he would be softer, less controlling, more vulnerable, he would ask for protection as much as he would offer it. At long last, he would certainly be able to seduce the Templar and have him in his bed the way the Warden never could. Maker’s breath, if he played his cards right, he could even make the man _happy_ – genuinely happy, the way he never was before, and on long winter nights they would sit by the fire and talk about the old times and remember the Warden, thanking him for bringing them together. That _would_ mean wasting his freedom and ruining his own life for such a petty cause (not to mention that the idea of a happily-ever-after with the Templar was more than disturbing), but nevertheless, what a sophisticated revenge that would be… (Revenge for what? It’s not as if the Warden had wronged him in any sense. Or had he? Zevran couldn’t tell any longer.)  
  
But there was an even better ending to the play.  
  
Earlier that evening, Zevran saw the Witch trying to sneak into the Warden’s bedroom.  
  
He hid in shadows and followed her, not out of jealousy (although really, what _was_ she doing in the Warden’s room all alone, especially after he told her more than clearly that he wasn’t interested in her advances?) but because he was afraid that he’d miss out a plot twist, and that was something he couldn’t bear to happen. She didn’t seem to notice – strange, given how careful and sharp-sensed she usually was – or perhaps, she was aware of the elf’s presence and hoped that it would actually help her cause. Maybe she expected the elf to react in the right moment and persuade the Warden into doing her bidding, who knew, but even if she did, in the end she did not address him or ask him to intervene, for which he was grateful. She came to the man with a proposal – a way out, a third option revealing the real reason why she had joined the Wardens in their task, and even the price to be paid wasn’t as high as one would expect. The only problem was that it was _seriously_ hindering the Warden’s plan – he turned pale when he heard her, and she thought that he was too much of a prude to commit such an act, that he found her price unacceptable (yet another proof that she wasn’t as clever as she claimed to be – she even started an entire “if-you-won’t-do-it-for-yourself-think-of-Zevran” tirade hoping to change his mind, but the man just laughed in her face, and Zevran felt oddly upset). He chased her out of his room and she frowned and yelled and called him a fool, threatening to leave the party and preferably turn them all into toads along the way. She ran down the corridor, batting her eyes to hide tears and hurt pride, and then she shapeshifted into a small, skinny dog and she was gone.  
  
She didn’t leave for good, though. Even the heartless Witch of the Wilds wasn’t able to turn her back on the people she’d spent one year with that easily.  
  
He followed the skinny dog to the castle yard where she laid down in bushes, obviously waiting for the army to start its march to Denerim, determined to tag along. At the time, he thought that he respected her enough to forget what he had seen and do not reveal to others that she was still among them. Now, however, he was so glad to know where she went.  
  
The Warden wasn’t aware that the elf knew about the Witch’s proposal.  
  
The only thing left for Zevran to do would be to wait for the man to fall asleep (thank the Maker he was a heavy sleeper) and seek out the Templar to sell him the idea.  
  
It wouldn’t be easy. The Templar distrusted both the elf and the Witch, and persuading him into taking part in a more than suspicious dark ritual would be almost impossible. But Zevran was a good actor, almost as good as the Warden himself. He would throw himself at the Templar’s feet. He would cry, he would beg, he would go down on his knees and say that the Warden was such a good man, a true saint, the ideal Grey Warden, too honorable to carry out the Witch’s request, preferring to sacrifice his own life for freedom, Ferelden and the new king. With tears in his eyes, he would tell the Templar that he loved the Warden more than anything in the world and he wouldn’t bear to lose him, that he would do the ritual himself if he only could, but alas he was helpless, and the only person left to save the day was His Majesty himself. After all, it was his best friend they were talking about, and this was a now-or-never, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the Templar to take matters into his own hands, do something outstanding and save the man who dedicated his entire life to saving others.  
  
The Templar would be reluctant, perhaps, but after such a speech, there was no way he could refuse.  
  
Zevran would then lead His Majesty to the dog in the bushes, and there they would strike the deal with the Witch, and the Templar would lose his virginity, and the ghost of the Shapeshifting Hag would laugh, knowing that in the end she did have her way with them all.  
  
As if echoing that laughter, Zevran started snickering, face buried in the Warden’s neck. The Warden lost his rhythm for a moment, confused – after the initial few times, the elf made so little noise during their lovemaking, let alone _laughed_ – but then he resumed his pace, perfectly indifferent toward anything that did not concern his most direct interests.  
  
(Zevran wouldn’t do it, of course, any of it. He was a survivor, and following either of those ploys to the end would be a most foolish thing to do. He’d back out in the last moment, wouldn’t he?)  
  
But still, he was amused like he hadn’t been for years, this temptation so intoxicating, this rebellion almost as brilliant as the Warden’s scheme.  
  
(Maker, just listen to him, he even started _sounding_ like the man – all flowery and elaborate sentences, as if prepared for a poetry reading. It _was_ a part of their training, yes, to emulate the person you were spending your time with, because people liked people who talked and behaved like them, and if they liked you they would become easier targets. But in that moment Zevran couldn’t remember the natural flow of his own thoughts any longer. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever had any.)  
  
He could see the scene as vividly as if he were already there – the final battle raging through the lovely city of Denerim, darkspawn corpses scattered on the streets alongside dead knights, dwarves, magi and elves, and some innocent civilians here and there, if merely for decorative purposes. The sky would be appropriately red (or that screaming orange color they always used for painting the stage scenery for Epic Battles), resonating with battle cries and the sound of clashing swords. The fight with the dragon would be a tough one, of that there was no doubt, but Zevran was sure that in this state of mind the Warden was able to singlehandedly obliterate the Black City itself, let alone handle one former god. That smug expression would show through the hero’s mask as the man took his sword and charged to strike the beast (Zevran saw the entire scene in those slow motions that the actors used when they wanted to particularly emphasize an action), and he would try to savor the moment as long as possible – it was the crown of his plan, after all. And then, he would rip the Archdemon’s belly open, a spray of blood striking his pale face, and he would look at the Templar for one last time before closing his eyes, waiting for death to claim him, prepared to fall lifeless to the ground as elegantly as he could, and then…  
  
And then – surprise!  
  
Oh, Zevran could see it. The Warden would need a few instants before realizing that _nothing_ would happen. No heroic sacrifices. No deaths larger than life. It was over. Finished. For once, the man’s face would reflect a mixture of confusion and disbelief, right before it would melt into sheer, primal panic. It would be so hilarious – just picture him, the perfect poseur, all saintly and beautiful, now standing bemused on the battlefield with bloodied sword (a piece of Archdemon’s entrails stuck in his hair, just to sabotage the aesthetics), and such an epically stupid expression on his face. Priceless.  
  
This is when Zevran would start laughing.  
  
The Templar would dismiss this laugh as a hysterical breakdown caused by relief and joy, and he would approach the Warden, offering an apologetic smile – a smile that revealed a kind heart and a lack of intelligence – and say "I did it for _you_ , my friend,“ or something along those lines. The Warden’s face would turn even whiter, now it wouldn’t radiate panic, but despair and anger, it would twist into an ugly sight quite inappropriate for such a magnificent victory. Whether he would allow His Majesty to embrace him or not Zevran could not tell, but he believed that the man would push the Templar away as if in fear, for the moment when the monster would devour its creator had come. And all this time, the elf would continue laughing like never before.  
  
The Warden was a smart one, that he was. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out what had happened, especially after seeing the elf cackling like that. And when he got a hold of himself, his wrath would be terrifying. He wouldn’t have any strength left to keep up the hero act. He would finally loose his wits, and he’d curse and spit and probably say everything – _everything_ – in a muddle of angry words. Poor Templar, once he finally understood what had been going on, as if his heart hadn’t been broken enough – first he’d be so disappointed, then rightfully enraged. He’d probably draw his sword to confront the hero – or was it the villain – and then the story would _really_ finish with the two of them, just like it had started. Yet at that moment it would already be too late for Zevran, for as soon as the Warden recovered from his initial shock, the elf’s head would be the first to roll on the ground.  
  
(Wait, he went too far, this would be way too dramatic and tacky for the ending – maybe the Warden _would_ manage to maintain his mask and continue the charade, in which case his revenge against the elf would be twice as horrifying when it struck.)  
  
But in those few remaining moments of his life…  
  
In those few remaining moments, for the first time since he was told that his mother was his first victim, since those who raised him sold him on the slave market to the Crows to break his mind and body, since he killed his first mark and felt rightfully proud only to vomit an instant later, for the first time since he understood that mindless optimism was the only defense from thinking, since he started bragging how good of a life he had despite knowing that everyone around him took him for a fool, since his only purpose in life became killing and carnal pleasures, for the first time since he walked out of that Dalish camp disillusioned, since he saw the single person he may have loved dying on the floor slaughtered like a dog, since he started asking himself questions that led only to unpleasant answers, for the first time since his own botched suicide attempt, since he slept with this man whom he despised and admired so much, since he saw life fading away from Taliesin’s eyes, for the first time in his entire life, Zevran would triumph.  
  
And then the curtains would fall.


End file.
